


Catalyst

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: Wire in the Blood
Genre: Angst, Bathroom Sex, Introspection, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Pubic Hair, Rimming, Roughness, Short One Shot, Sweat, This Is STUPID, case includes mention of child abuse and death, pure filth, refers to vague and depressing non-canon case, set somewhere in season 6, so no spoilers to speak of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 07:52:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7500138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>' He knows that he’s probably traumatized – that they all are, have to be, working the kind of cases they do. '</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catalyst

**Author's Note:**

> Just finished up watching season six. Being the filthy hibernophile I am, my brain prompted me with a vague repetition of 'rimming' and 'Northern Irish' and 'body hair' and somehow I came up with this.
> 
> Do not expect quality here - this is literal garbage. I just like Liam, as a character, and wanted to stick someone's tongue up his ass.
> 
> Why yes, I am a filthy, terrible person.

* * *

If Kevin stops to think about how he wound up kneeling on the cold tile floor in Liam’s bathroom, he’d be hard pressed to identify a specific catalyst. Maybe it was the result of one too many pints out with his coworker. Maybe it was the reason _for_ the drinking – another sex crime case, this one involving kids. Maybe it was because Liam’s usually calm demeanour was disrupted by the sight of the tiny body, stretched out on the autopsy table. Maybe it was because his hands had shaken for a whole day after.

Maybe it was just the result of case after case, eating away at all that was good in the world, corroding hope like acid rain on monuments.

Maybe it was because, tipsy and tired and numb to everything, the prospect of feeling _something_ , when presented, was too good to resist.

Kevin supposes it could be any of those things.

Still, knees sore, thighs cramping, he finds it doesn’t matter. Not when there’s shower-damp skin and thick, coarse hair brushing his nose, or a fluttering pulse beneath his tongue. Liam is writhing, long limbs contorting, sweating in the close atmosphere of the tiny room. The shower steam, the heat, makes the air thick, humid. It seems to slow down each motion, each moment, so much so that Kevin feels himself separating from the situation. _Disassociating,_ Dr. Hill would call it – Kevin knows this. Kevin’s smart enough, he reads. He knows that he’s probably traumatized – that they all are, have to be, working the kind of cases they do. He digs his fingers into the flesh of Liam’s arse and pulls his cheeks wide apart, sucking and probing viciously with his tongue.

“Ah, Christ – _Kevin!”_

He can feel the movement of Liam’s arm, reaching under his trapped stomach, braced as he is against the unforgiving surface of the sink. He pulls back a bit, sucks roughly on the other man’s bollocks, takes a handful of the other man’s pubic hair and tugs hard enough to hurt.

“M’gonna come –”

 _Good,_ Kevin thinks, because it _is_ good, despite the weirdness of it. Fuck it, the whole unit’s pathologically unsound – consultants most definitely included. So what if he, Kevin Geoffries, has his tongue up the arse of the police medical examiner? Liam needs this – they _both_ need this – if only to block out everything else.

Kevin sucks hard on the spot between arsehole and tackle and that sends Liam over. Kevin is hyperaware of all of it– the semen dribbling onto the tile; the sweat cooling on Liam’s back; the taste of it, gathered in the hairy valley of his cleft; the way his accent thickens right as he hits his peak. Kevin’s aware of the faint buzzing of the flickering bathroom light. He’s aware of the _drip drip drip_ of the tap. He’s aware, most of all, of where his own cock lies shrunken, flaccid, in his trousers.

 _Sex is about power,_ Dr. Hill said once. Or was it _power is about sex?_ Was it both? Rape is about power, too – Kevin learned that in a seminar on police responses to sexual offenses. This isn’t about either. Honestly, Kevin isn’t sure he wants to know what it’s about. It’s enough to have the image of Liam’s sperm on the floor, the musky taste of him on his tongue.

Kevin works his jaw, cracks it. His chin is spit-slicked, his lips swollen and sore. There’s a pubic hair caught in his teeth. He picks it out and stares at it, curled in his palm like a snake, and decides its enough – this strange, unspoken thing – to maintain whatever sanity they have left.


End file.
